Friday, February 27, 2015

Recently I have been
re-watching Friends on Netflix. It
was one of my all-time favorite sitcoms, ranking right up there with Cheers and Seinfeld.

While I watched it when it originally
aired in 1994, I hadn't watched every single episode in succession. Without commercial interruptions.

So I watched it all
again.

When the original
series ended in 2004, I cried. I guess I identified with the characters on the
show since I was only slightly older than they were. Of course, I didn’t have friends
who lived across the hall who would burst into my apartment to exchange witty banter to a laugh track. But I recognized
the closeness these fictitious characters shared – because I shared that same
closeness with my own friends, many of whom I met in college at Ohio State.

I was sad when the
series ended because it depicted how life moves on and how we change. Many of
those changes are good – we grow up, we move for our careers or to start
somewhere anew, we marry, we have children.
But sometimes those changes cause us to lose some of that closeness with
those friends who, when we were younger, seemed to be “just across the hall”
figuratively, if not literally. It was easier back then when we could drop
everything to get together just to hang out for no reason at all or for special
occasions like Halloween parties or ski weekends.

Nowadays, we get
together less for “no reason at all” and more for things like weddings and funerals.
The former is a happy reason, but the latter? Well, it may be the circle of
life, but it’s still sad and difficult. And for some of us, it’s definitely a
test of the strength of our waterproof mascara.

So yesterday I watched
the Friends finale. And I still cried, even though I knew how it ended. After I turned off Netflix
and dried my tears – all the while laughing at myself for being such a crybaby
– I got to work on the everyday real life stuff: making dinner for my husband,
throwing a load of whites in the washing machine and watering the ficus tree.

Then, a couple of hours
later, I received a call from my friend Joe telling me that his mom had passed.

And the waterworks began
again.

I have so many memories
of the lady I always called “Mrs. B.” Not “Mrs. Bressler.” NEVER “Lilly.” To Alex, Nick and Joe, she was “Mom.” And to
all her grandchildren, she was “Nonna.”

And to her I was
always, “Janie.”

My husband Vince and I
traveled to North Carolina a couple years ago to attend Joe and Leah’s wedding.
Mrs. B was so happy to see us and, as usual, welcomed us like family.
We took the requisite photos, of course, and at one point, I aimed the camera
at her. She had been sitting on a stool in the kitchen, but when she saw me
with the camera, she stood up, walked over to the stove, picked up a pot,
leaned against the counter in a pose, and proudly said in her Italian accent,
“You take my picture now, Janie. I’m da cook!”

Oh, but she was so much
more than that.

Yes, she was a cook.
And a seamstress. And a disciplinarian. And a quick wit. She loved Viareggio and
her homeland and Italian heritage, but she loved being an American, too.

But mostly? Well, mostly,
she was a wonderful friend. And whatever you called her, she was not someone
you could ever forget.

For years, she worked
at Fabians in Steubenville altering bridal gowns. I visited her there numerous
times to see her tiny form covered in a big cloud of white as her nimble
fingers added sequins by hand to a bridal gown. I’m guessing you could ask any
bride whose wedding gown she altered – even if it was decades ago – and she’d
remember Mrs. B. And she’d likely have some stories to share.

Anyone who ever met
Mrs. B knows about the “boys from Youngstown.” She’d tell us to be good or she’d
get the boys from Youngstown after us. And then she’d lift her finger and make
a “rat-tat-tat-tat-tat” sound like a tommy gun. Later, when she walked with a
cane, she would lift the cane as a prop and make that sound. And then we’d all
laugh, but no one harder or louder than Mrs. B.

Like any
self-respecting Italian, food was a priority in the Bressler household.

I remember the first
time I visited Nick and Joe in Steubenville and sat down for a meal at Mrs. B’s
table. No one had warned me that the chicken she served was only the first
course – and not the entire meal.

I know, I know. Rookie
mistake.

I spent the rest of the
meal trying to eat a respectable portion of all the courses without insulting
her – or exploding. It was delicious. But it wasn’t easy.

When I moved to
Steubenville in 1998 to work with Nick and Joe, I realized that Mrs. B was just
as much a part of their company as they were. She was at every birthday
gathering, office Christmas party and event. She sent food over weekly. She
would have sent it daily if Nick and Joe had let her. I can still picture Nick
or Joe with her big black purse slung over their shoulder, carefully guiding
her up the steps to the office so she could regale us with her stories.

Once she learned my
cell phone number, that was it. She’d call me several times a week. I’d answer
the phone and hear, “Janie!” and I knew Mrs. B was on the other end of the
line. “Come pick me up tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock,” she’d say. “I take you
to breakfast.”

I soon learned the
reasons behind these breakfasts were two-fold: 1) she needed a ride to work,
and 2) she was on a fact-finding mission to get the scoop on her boys’ companies.
She figured I was a soft touch and would spill the beans.

Usually I was able to
divert her attention by asking to see some of her old photographs. Her eyes
would light up and her hands would dig into that big black purse – and out would
come a baggie filled with black and white photographs of days gone by. Photos
of her as a young war bride. Photos of her in a bathing suit on the beach with
her legs playfully crossed in a movie star pose. Pictures of her boys when they
were little.

And always she had
another story to share.

After I moved back to
Columbus, Mrs. B frequently called me from her cell phone. It didn’t matter if
I were in a meeting or in the middle of an eye exam. If I answered the phone,
Mrs. B had license to talk.

So she’d talk. And
talk. Annnnd…talk. But once she was finished, she’d suddenly say, “Janie – I
love you. You family.” And – boom! – she’d disconnect the call.

Sometimes she’d
jokingly add, “You pick me up tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock? I take you to
breakfast.” And then she’d laugh because she knew I wasn’t going to be able to
drive from Columbus to Steubenville the next morning by 9 o’clock just to go to
breakfast.

It was only in the last
year or two that her calls became more infrequent. And then she stopped calling
me altogether. And, oh, how I miss those telephone calls.

Seven years ago I first introduced Vince to my OSU friends for a milestone birthday party in Cleveland. He had to go through a rigorous screening process. And the
toughest person on the jury was Mrs. B.

But before the weekend
was over, she was calling him “Vincey” (a name even I don’t get to call him, by the way!), and he was given the
Mrs. B Stamp of Approval.

It was an honor, then,
a year later when she attended our wedding. I have many wonderful memories of
that day, of course, but one of the best was when – at the urging of Mrs. B –
our DJ played, Let Me Call You Sweetheart
as the last song of the evening and we all gathered together to sing. The
blurry phone camera photos we have of that moment are – to me – priceless. And
Mrs. B, of course, was front and center in them all.

The last time I visited
Mrs. B was in August with Nick, Beth and their girls. Nick played the piano and
sang. Mrs. B looked at me, nodded at Nick and murmured, “beautiful.”

And whenever she spoke
of – or looked at – her grandchildren, she’d smile and again mouth the word, “beautiful.”

Beyond the obvious, I
think I knew what she meant. She meant that she’d raised three wonderful boys.
They grew up, married and raised (and are still raising) beautiful families of
their own. She was so very proud of them all.

The fact that they are
the kindest, funniest, best friends I’ve ever known is testament to the fact
that I think she did a beautiful job, too.

Mrs. B’s dressy
occasion outfit was a pair of blue slacks, blue vest or jacket and a white ruffled
blouse. Sometimes the blue would be replaced by black, but the white ruffled
blouse was a constant.

Now, whenever I see a
white ruffled blouse – whether it’s on a model or on a grandmother – I think of
Mrs. B. And whenever I see someone walking with a cane, irreverent as it is, I
picture the user holding it up like a tommy gun and saying, “Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!”

And it makes me smile.

None of us lives
forever. We all know that. But it’s still hard to say goodbye.

Mrs. B used to say,
“I’m 90-and change” – so she lived a full, long, beautiful life. But she is
going to miss her oldest granddaughter’s upcoming wedding. And she’s going to
miss the birth of her newest grandchild. Life will go on without her. But she
will always, always remain close in
our hearts.

I love you, Mrs. B. You family. And I wish I could pick you
up tomorrow at 9 o’clock. I would take you to breakfast.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

I don’t think my cats, Twinks and Jinx, are markedly different than most
other cats. They’re not purebred felines. They don’t possess any skills worthy
of YouTube. And while I think they are adorable, their little faces aren’t
expressive enough to become the next Big Thing à la the Grumpy Cat.

But they amuse me, nonetheless.

They have habits that are now absolute rules in the house. Like, for instance, I cannot get up first thing in the morning and stumble over to the Keurig to brew myself some eye-opening coffee.

Instead, replenishing their food bowls is the first order of business. They act as if they haven't eaten for days - even if there is still food in their bowls. And God forbid

there is a little circle of
emptiness in the middle of the bowl. They will meow as if I’m purposely
starving them.

The next thing I have to do is refill their water bowls with fresh water. They will saunter over to it, look at it and then look up at me with an almost disdainful look as if to say, "Hey, lady, what's with the day-old water, here? We need fresh water. Immediately! And don't give us any of that tap stuff, either!"

Once that task has been fulfilled, then – and only then – am I allowed to make myself a cup of coffee.

For the past year or so, I have been carrying my coffee to the living
room where I sit on the loveseat and contemplate life. Well, mostly I contemplate
the inside of my eyelids and wonder when the caffeine will finally hit my
bloodstream. But this habit helps me become a little more civilized and ready
for the day. Clearly, the Grumpy Cat and I have much in common first thing in
the morning.

Eventually, Vince gets up, brews his own cup of coffee, and joins me for
a few moments of quiet before we begin our day.

That is, until Twinks decided that having captive humans available to
give her some kitty love was a great idea. She will leap up on the back of the
couch and bonk her furry little head against Vince’s to let him know that the
kitty petting is about to commence.

Then she climbs down to the arm of the loveseat and waits. Sure enough, Vince
starts petting her and she starts purring. This only stops when either (a)
Vince tries to move her to the seat of the couch in order to have easier access,
which she doesn’t like because it wasn’t her idea or (b) she has had enough
kitty attention and jumps down to the floor to give herself a bath.

I can’t decide if I’ve trained our cats – or our cats have trained me. I
suspect the latter. Case in point: when we moved into our new house, I brought
the treats canister and a bag of treats down to our lower level where the TV
is. One night, after we turned off the news and before we headed upstairs to
bed, I gave them a handful of treats.

It wasn’t long before they expected this habit to continue. And by “wasn’t
long before,” I mean immediately. And
by “expected,” I mean demanded.

Since then, the absolute second the television goes silent, they are on
high alert meowing and squeaking to let me know it’s time for their treats. It
doesn’t matter if we’re fast forwarding through the commercials or simply
muting the television, whenever they hear silence, Twinks and Jinx will move to their assigned “spots” to await their treats.

The other day, the cats were on the floor taking their scheduled 6 p.m.
kitty siesta and I was watching a program on TV. I accidentally hit the power
button on the remote, which of course immediately silenced the TV. And out of
the corner of my eye, I saw the cats snap awake. They swiveled their little
heads to look at the TV and then – in unison, no less – swiveled back to look
at me. And then they moved to their spots. Twinks meowed and Jinx squeaked to
let me know it was Treat Time. It was like a well-choreographed routine.

I couldn’t help it – I started to laugh.

And, believe, me, I wanted to give them some treats for that stellar
performance, but I resisted. Why?

Because I really don’t want to start the 6 p.m. Treat Time habit. This
is partly because our Treats budget would go up exponentially.

Friday, February 6, 2015

Last night Vince and I went to see a Kevin Costner film. We both thought it was the one where he is a
teacher and coach in a small southern California town who forms a cross-country
team of predominantly Latino students. These kids run really, really fast and end
up winning lots of competitions. We had previously seen the preview and thought
it might be a good movie.

Instead, we saw Kevin Costner as a grandfather of an adorable biracial little
girl who is being raised by Costner’s character and his wife. The wife dies
unexpectedly, though it’s not terribly sad as it happens at the beginning and we
never actually meet her. But the rest of
the film involves a custody battle with the other grandmother, played by
Octavia Spencer.

Yeah, this was the wrong flick.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy Black or White. It had a good message and I think it was well done. I even shed a tear or two at the end (proof
in Jane’s Domain that it was a good movie).

It’s just that when you go to the theater, you sort of have an idea of what
you’re going to see, don’t you? You gear up for an action film or a science
fiction flick or a romantic comedy. And if it’s one of those weepy chick flick movies,
you come prepared with a fistful of extra Kleenex.

Well, we walked in expecting to see a feel-good movie about a group of
kids who become track stars.

And for the first fifteen minutes or so, I waited for Kevin Costner to
make a big change in his life after the death of his wife and move to a new
town where he starts coaching. Figured
he’d just bring his little granddaughter along, although she was a surprise as
I didn’t remember her in the preview.

Uh. Never happened.

At about the 20 minute mark, I had to readjust my thinking and settle
in for an entirely different movie. This was not easy to do. Especially since I
sensed Vince’s frustration as he is not a big fan of stories about custody
battles.

So I learned my lesson. I had done so much research on the best theaters
(the closest ones with the comfy recliners) and the best start times (which would allow
us enough time for dinner beforehand, but not so much time that we’d get home
late and have to immediately go to sleep), that I forgot to actually read the
synopsis of the movie. Nor did I apparently pay much attention to the title of
the film, as that is sort of a hint.

Yeah, apparently my research ended with the photo of Kevin Costner as
the star. But, c’mon. Who knew the man
is still such a big star that he has two
movies coming out in the first quarter of 2015?

Guess I shouldn’t make such assumptions, eh? Vince would prefer it, I’m sure.

On the other hand, at least I didn't inadvertently drag Vince to a weepy chick
flick. He would’ve walked out in protest and watched American
Sniper for the second time.

Besides, I had no extra Kleenex for the weepy chick flick.

So, anyway. If you’re up for a movie in the next few days and you’re a fan of
either Kevin Costner or Octavia Spencer, go see Black or White. I think you’ll
like it. But just know that there is no
running in the movie.

Oh, and if you want to see a movie about cross country track stars?
That one is called McFarland, USA – but
it doesn’t open until February 20th.

About Me

People have compared my writing style to Dave Barry or the late Erma Bombeck, which I find flattering because I admire their writing style. I want people who read my stuff to feel like I'm sitting in the room talking with them and sharing stories and life observations.

Over the years I've been told I should write "for real." Friends and colleagues have suggested I take a stab at writing children's books or newspaper or magazine articles. I've even submitted an article or ten. No one, however, has suggested how I should pay for the roof over my head while I'm waiting to be discovered. So I've gotten 'regular' jobs where I occasionally get to work out my left brain, which has been rewarding.

And then I discovered blogging. Does blogging count as writing? We'll see. So far I'm enjoying the process.